[WMG J14G]
Come hither lads and listen, for a tale there is to tell
Of the wonderful days a coming, when all shall be better than well
And the tale shall be told of a country, a land in the midst of the sea,
And folk shall call it England in the days that are going to be.
Then more than one in a thousand in the days that are yet to come
Shall have some hope for tomorrow, some joy in the ancient home.
For then, (laugh not, but listen to this strange tale of mine!)
All folk that are in England shall be better lodged than swine.
Then a man shall work and bethink him, and rejoice in the deeds of his hand,
Nor ye come home in the even too faint and weary to stand.
Men in that time acoming shall work & have no fear
For tomorrow’s lack of earning and the hunger-wolf anear.
I tell you this for a wonder, that no man then shall be glad
Of his fellow’s fall and mishap to snatch at the work he had.
For that which the worker winneth shall then be his indeed,
Nor shall half be reaped for nothing by him that hath sowed no seed
O new found wonderful justice! but for whom shall we gather the gain?
For ourselves & for each of our fellows, that no hand may labour in vain.
Then all mine and all thine shall be ours, and no more shall any man grave
For riches that serve for nothing but to fetter a friend for a slave.
And what wealth then shall be left us when none shall heap up gold
To buy his friend in the market, and pinch and pine the sold.
Nay what save the lovely city, and the little house on the hill
And the wastes and the woodland beauty & the happy fields we till:
The homes of ancient stories the tombs of the mighty dead;
And the wise men seeking out marvels, and the poets teeming head;
And the painters hand of wonder, and the marvellous fiddle-bow
And the banded choirs of music -- all those that do and know.
For all then shall be ours and all men’s, and none shall lack a share
Of the toil and the gain of living in the days of the world grown fair.
Ah! such are the days that shall be! But what are the deeds of today,
And the hours of the years we dwell in that wear our lives away?
Why, then and for what are we waiting? There are three words to speak
We will it; and what is the foeman but the dream strong wakened & weak?
O why, and for what are we waiting? While our brothers droop & die
And on every wind of the heavens a wasted life goes by.
How long shall they reproach us, where crowd on crowd they swell,
Poor ghosts of the wicked city, the gold crushed hungry hell?
Through squalid life they laboured, in sordid grief they died,
Those sons of a mighty mother, those props of England’s pride
They are gone; there is none can undo it, nor save our souls from the curse;
But many a million cometh, and shall they be better or worse.
It is we must answer and hasten, and open wide the door
For the rich mans hurrying terror and the slow-foot hope of the poor
Yea the voiceless wrath of the wretched, and their unlearned discontent
We must give it voice and wisdom till the waiting-tide be spent.
Come then, since all things call us the living and the dead
And o’er the weltering tangle a glimmering light is shed.
Come, let us cast off fooling and put by ease and rest
For the cause alone is worthy till the good days bring the best.
Come, join in the only battle wherein no man can fail,
Where whoso fadeth and dieth, yet his deed shall still prevail.
Ah come, & cast off all fooling for this at least we know
That the dawn and the day is coming and forth the banners go.
